Page 92 of Irresistible Rogue

“I’ll need to see your ID, ma’am.”

Shit, did this guy not know how to take no for an answer? I was starting to get creeped out.

A fuzzy voice emitted from the radio clipped to his shoulder. I couldn’t tell what the man on the other end was saying, but I panicked.

“I was just following a guy,” I rambled, “the guy in the yellow Lamborghini. I…”

He touched the radio and muttered something into it aboutSection five, andI’ll get back to you. Then he slid his aviators onto his head and pinned me with a stare that was much worse than looking at my disheveled self in those mirrored lenses.

“I… I just saw him driving,” I stammered, “and… I thought I knew him…”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to report this to the police, ma’am.”

“But he’s… He’s my brother!” I blurted out.

Oh my god. Did you actually just say that?

What the actual fuck, Jolie!!!

Alyssa flashed through my mind. Alyssa would know what to do here. Her cousin was a lawyer. Or Madeleine. I could call Aunt Madeleine for help. Someone who had their shit together. “I… I need to call a friend,” I stuttered.

Then I started to cry.

This guy looked at me like he wasn’t sure whether to feel sorry for me or back away slowly from the escaped mental patient.

“Please sit down right there, ma’am,” he repeated calmly, indicating the stone bench again. “And I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

So, that happened.

I got caught trespassing on some gated estate by a smoking hot security guy, told him Shane was my brother, and then burst into tears. Then I got formally escorted off the property.

I mean, it could’ve been worse. He could’ve had me arrested.

But other than the moment when I realized I’d unknowingly fucked my future stepbrother, that was the most humiliating experience of my life.

When the stripper-looking security guy, who definitely turned out to be an actual security guy, got back on his radio, he called two of his buddies in for backup. Because dealing with the tiny hysterical trespassing girl requiredbackup. Or maybe just witnesses.

Three giant dudes walked me over to the driveway and out the security gate, and up the street to my mom’s car, where they wrote down the license plate and sent me on my way.

At least they didn’t go get my “brother.”

Did they tell Shane I was there? That I’d followed him there and climbed over the fence?

I’d hid in my bedroom for the rest of the day, pacing a hole in the carpet while I harassed Alyssa at work, calling to tell her what happened and then calling her back repeatedly to make her talk me down from rushing straight to the airport to get on the next plane to San Diego, never to be seen in these parts again.

Then I’d Google mapped that estate, satellite viewed the grounds, Google searched the address that came up, and generally tried to figure out what the hell that place was. With zero results.

It didn’t feel like a home where some regular family lived, or even some wealthy celebrity. It didn’t feel like a home at all. But there was no sign at the gate stating otherwise.

What was Shane doing there?

Not feeding starving kids, I was pretty sure.

What private residence had three huge security dudes at the ready? And who knew how many others were just waiting to repel from the trees or whatever if I caused much more of a scene?

I couldn’t stop sweating that they were going to tell Shane about me. I didn’t give them my name or show them my ID, as much as they wanted it. They didn’t tell me who they were, so why would I tell them who I was?

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